Listening to the Quiet

by Listening to the Quiet (retail) (epub)

  ‘Rex and Molly Vigus came to Nance Farm a short time ago to buy milk for their baby sister. I was shocked to see the appalling condition they were in, from wilful neglect, and I would hazard, a certain amount of cruelty. Their brother doesn’t seem to care very much about them. Something must be done immediately. I felt I had to inform you straightaway.’

  ‘And what do you expect me to do?’ he asked calmly.

  ‘Take immediate action to ensure the children are treated properly. Telephone the authorities, write to someone,’ Jo retorted, her voice rising. Wasn’t the damned man interested?

  Marcus’s face was quiet. ‘Let me assure you, Miss Venner, that everything that could be done for the Vigus children has been attempted. Many people, myself included, have pleaded with Jessie Vigus to behave as a responsible mother. The family have been given food, clothes, bedding and furniture, often by others who could ill afford to part with them. Jessie Vigus thwarted the good intentions every time. She sold everything to nourish her drinking habit.’

  ‘But things can’t be allowed to continue as they are, Mr Lidgey.’

  ‘I agree with you and they won’t be. The next step will be for the children to be taken away and put into an orphanage. The authorities are reluctant to do so while the elder brother is trying to provide for the family.’

  Jo tossed her head towards the ceiling. ‘I’ve just mentioned how ineffective he is. The only thing he will do for the children is teach them to drink, swear and steal.’

  ‘He does try. We can’t invade the home to keep checking on his efforts.’

  ‘Well, whatever he’s doing it is obviously falling miserably short,’ she said huffily. ‘You must get in touch with the authorities again.’

  ‘If I may say so, it is easy to stand on one’s moral indignation and suggest that. But have you thought about what it would do to Rex and Molly to be uprooted and forced out of their home? To live the rest of their childhood in a cold institution amongst total strangers? To many children, whatever sort of home they are brought up in, it is usually better to them than no proper home at all.’ A heavy weight descended upon Marcus. He had repeated the comments Miss Teague had made about the Vigus children, views he did not necessarily share. He knew that life in an institution might be more easily endured than an unforgivably abused existence in the home.

  Jo brushed back her damp hair and walked towards the desk. The passion seeped out of her. ‘You’re right, Mr Lidgey. I’m sorry. I’ve been thinking with my heart instead of my head. The children’s plight touched me deeply.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt your heart has a large capacity for compassion. I will consider the problem of the Vigus children anew,’ he said softly. He ventured to her side. ‘Please sit down. Have some more tea.’

  ‘No, thank you. I’ve disturbed your work. I must go and find Miss Merrick.’ Jo faced him, determined again. ‘Mr Lidgey, I have to tell you that if Rex and Molly do not attend school tomorrow or Friday then I shall call on their mother at the weekend.’

  ‘I advise against the notion,’ he said gravely. ‘Leave it to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I cannot. It may have come to your notice that the baby, Marylyn, is Lew Trevail’s child. I have some influence on him and somehow I feel I have a duty towards the little one. I will not forsake it.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Luke rolled up the bedroll he used when on the road.

  Unable to bear sleeping under his mother’s roof for this visit home, Luke had pitched his wagon on the moor, close to the outskirts of the village. Lighting a cigarette, he opened the canvas at the back of the wagon and looked outside. The air was damp and chill, the sky heavy, threatening and grey, but he had everything he needed inside his moving home. A photograph of Gran, the woman who’d reared him, a change of clothes and his latest stock of goods: bolts of cloth, household wares and garden tools to sell to the street traders at Penzance, and a concealed stash of stolen silver to pass on to a fence in the same town. When the wagon was empty he’d travel over to Hayle, pick up a haul of timber, taken illegally from a timber yard, and sell it on to a small boat-builder at St Ives. Then he’d deal strictly legitimate for a few weeks, to keep the law off his back.

  Last night he had gone home to check on the kids. The cottage appeared deserted at first. He thought Rex and Molly had crept off to bed, and their mother had wandered off again. He hoped she had fallen foul of a forsaken mineshaft or something equally dangerous. Then Marylyn whimpered hungrily in her drawer and he found Jessie hopelessly paralytic on the floor next to the dresser, beside two empty illegal gin bottles. Hefting her over his shoulder, he carried her up the rope ladder and threw her down on her filthy mattress. Why couldn’t she suffer the fate of others when in this condition, to be sick and choke herself to death? Luke believed she only stayed alive to torment him.

  ‘Oh, hell, where have you two gone?’ he’d groaned at Rex and Molly’s empty mattress.

  Recognising Mercy Merrick’s voice outside, he knew that out in the cold and rain was the answer. He had called his brother and sister inside and thanked his neighbour and her lodger for their kindness. He had done his bit, so what right did the new schoolteacher have to glare at him accusingly? Sighing with discontent, he knew the answer to this second question, and what he must do about it. He’d have to shelve his plans to take off to the north of the county for the next few weeks.

  Washing in the stream before going home to see the kids got some breakfast, he wished he could wash away his moral obligations.

  Rex and Molly were eating porridge in their ragged nightclothes when someone rapped loudly on the door. Afraid it was the ‘truancy man’, after eyeing Luke nervously and receiving a nod from him, they clambered up the rope ladder with their bowls and spoons.

  Leisurely firing up a cigarette, Luke finally answered the door.

  It was Marcus Lidgey, wearing a silk tie and the dark suit he taught in, of a style and cut that was the envy of every man in the village. He was carrying a briefcase, presumably about to start his day’s work.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘You must have a very good idea.’ Marcus frostily held up his hand, determined he would not have the door slammed in his face this time. ‘Are Rex and Molly attending school today?’

  Taking a long puff on his smoke, Luke said defensively, ‘I s’pose so. My mother will see to it.’ He knew it was unlikely.

  ‘Can’t you make sure they get ready?’ Marcus enquired stubbornly.

  Overhead, Molly coughed, a painful blaring sound.

  Marcus frowned impatiently. ‘She’s caught a cold, from being out in the rain last night, no doubt. I’ve been informed of the children’s excursion to Nance Farm. If you don’t want your brother and sisters to end up in an orphanage, Mr Vigus, you will have to ensure they are more suitably looked after from now on.’

  ‘I know that,’ Luke swore. ‘You bloody do-gooders should be telling Jessie this, not me. ’Tisn’t my fault if she’s pissed most of the time and doesn’t behave like a proper mother.’

  ‘In the circumstances, you ought to assume parental responsibility.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Luke snarled, dangerously close to losing his temper.

  ‘If your mother can’t or won’t take proper care of her family, you should find someone who will,’ Marcus barked, his own temper rising at the roughcast dealer’s indifference.

  Luke placed his hand on the door. ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘Yes. The fate of your family is in your hands, Vigus.’

  As Marcus swung angrily away on his heel, Luke kicked the door shut. ‘Sanctimonious bastard. It isn’t schooling the kids need most.’ At this moment they needed him. But he needed his freedom. He had some hard thinking to do to work things out satisfactorily for all their futures.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Who’s she?’ Keane Trevail asked his wife. He had just limped into the kitchen of Heather Cottage, having paid a call to the outside earth closet. Shutt
ing out the draught, hanging his jacket on a hook behind the door, he lowered his hefty body, fronted by a sagging paunch, down gingerly on the chair at the head of the table. He sat directly in front of the dresser, which made it difficult for his family to fetch and put things away in it.

  ‘Tis Joanna Venner. You remember she. She used to play with our boys backalong. Used to stay at Miss Sayce’s.’

  ‘Eh?’ Keane stroked his full grey-streaked beard, shifted awkwardly to get comfortable on the knitted-covered cushion. He had not been fully mobile for ten years, after suffering a crushed foot at the Cam Valley Stamp. ‘Oh, she that’s the teacher now?’

  ‘Jo’s been to the shop,’ Irene said. ‘She bought me a bag of peppermints and this for you, Father.’ She proudly put a two-ounce packet of Gold Flake on the scrubbed table, before pouring her husband a huge mug of tea.

  Feeling slightly embarrassed, Jo waited for Keane to thank her.

  His heavy breathing, due to a spot of miner’s lung congestion, filled the stuffily warm room. ‘Kind of her,’ Keane told his wife, and Jo realised he usually spoke through Irene. ‘She can stay for dinner, if she likes.’ He reached for his cigarette papers and matches on the dresser, next to his most prized possession, his miner’s hard hat.

  ‘I’ll get on with the pie,’ Irene said, returning to the making of the rabbit pie on the table, the job interrupted by Jo’s arrival.

  ‘I wish I could stay for dinner, Mrs Trevail,’ Jo said regretfully. She felt at ease in the shabby little home. She was getting used to the smells of residue of cooked cabbage, stale tobacco and liniment; there was a large bottle on the dresser, probably used to ease an arthritic joint. ‘I have other business this morning.’

  ‘Never mind, perhaps another time.’

  Jo watched Irene sprinkle coarse flour over a rolling pin then roll out a lump of greyish dough to complete the rabbit pie. Irene made a homely figure, hairpins falling out of her thin, grey bun, bobbled slippers on her feet. Jo considered asking Mercy to teach her to cook.

  Sucking on a cigarette, making his ragged breathing noisier, Keane studied Jo as if she was a slice of meat brought in from the butcher’s horse and cart.

  ‘She’s still like a yard of pump water. A woman should have a bit of bum and bosom. She haven’t got a face like a mare’s backside though. Could get herself a husband, I s’ pose, and live a proper sort of life. I mind, when she couldn’t get her own way with Lew and Russell, she belonged to look like a ferret had put his arse in under her sharp little face.’

  ‘Keane,’ Irene chided him, turning crimson. ‘You’re being rude.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Jo could not help laughing. She knew Keane was not being offensive. Then she fell into wishing she did have a ‘bit of bum and bosom’. Thrusting her shoulders back she tried to appear more rounded.

  He finally spoke to her. ‘Well then, maid, what are you on upon, coming back to these parts like this? Bet your mother was mazed with ’ee.’

  ‘She was.’ Jo smiled to herself. Before calling at Heather Cottage, she had rung Tresawna House from the parlour of the Engine House Inn again. Emma, the maid, had fetched Alistair to speak to her. Alistair had sounded jolly, admitted reluctantly that he was pleased she was settling in at the school. When she enquired how Katherine was, he had replied resignedly, ‘Oh, you know Mother, she’s how she’s always been, little thing.’

  Jo knew her name was never mentioned at home by her mother, unless in a derogatory tone.

  Quickly putting the rabbit pie into the coal-burning, cream-coloured Cornish ‘slab’, Irene stood in front of the range, cutting off the heat, folding her arms across her aproned bosom.

  ‘How did your first week go?’ Irene asked her.

  ‘I think it went very well. I feel I’ve known the children for ages. There’s one boy, Kenneth Willis, who keeps falling asleep.’

  ‘He would, poor little soul. His father works him like a donkey, labouring wherever he can get them both work. I knew you’d settle in here,’ Irene went on triumphantly. ‘Told you so, didn’t I, Father? Miss Sayce, well, I won’t say nothing about her private life, we being good chapel people, but she was good to you, Jo. You’ll understand the kiddies better than that old mare Miss Choak. Used to crack Russell’s knuckles with the ruler nearly every day, she did, the miserable old so-and-so. Do you get on with Miss Teague?’

  ‘She seems a little distant. I’d like to get to know her better.’ Miss Teague had been coolly polite to Jo all week. She did not avail herself of the schoolhouse during the breaks and Jo suspected she resented her visits there.

  ‘You won’t get much out of she.’ Irene shook her head. ‘Likes her own company mostly, though she can be charitable. She’ll probably come round when she gets used to you.’

  ‘Funny thing ’bout that schoolmaster.’ While filling his pouch with Gold Flake, Keane kept his watery gaze on Jo.

  ‘What’s funny, Mr Trevail?’ Jo would not indulge in gossip about her superior but she was hoping to learn something more about Marcus Lidgey.

  ‘You never asked yourself what he’s doing here? Clever man like he could get a much better job. Doesn’t have t’be a schoolmaster at all, I’d have thought. Plays beautiful music, I’ve heard un a time or two. Gotta car, a few posh bits of furniture went inside the ’master’s house the day he moved in, but he ain’t got nothing else. He’s ruined, been up to something bad, if you ask me. Watch out you don’t get involved in it, maid, whatever it is. If you find out—’

  ‘I’m really not interested in Mr Lidgey’s private affairs, Mr Trevail.’ Jo felt it was time she interrupted. She consulted the clock on the mantelpiece, flanked either side by the cheap plaster ornaments she remembered Lew and Russell winning at the Corpus Christi Fair. ‘Is that the time? I’m afraid I really must go. Thank you for the tea.’ She was sure she would taste Irene’s bitter-strong brew on her tongue for the rest of the day. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  ‘Next time you come just walk straight in, my luvver.’ Irene smiled warmly. ‘No need to knock, we never do round here. Come and go by the back door if you like.’

  Jo put her raincoat on and left by the back of the cottage. Before she got through the back kitchen, she was set upon by Russell. He was unshaven, bleary-eyed and smelled manky, having rushed out of bed after the late shift at the Geevor mine.

  He grabbed her arm. ‘Have you spoken to Sally yet?’

  ‘Yes. She’s thinking about it,’ she lied shamelessly! Jo had totally forgotten Russell’s request she act as romantic go-between.

  ‘Ask her if she’ll meet me up by the ruins.’

  ‘The mine ruins?’

  ‘Where else do you think I meant?’ he muttered impatiently. ‘Set up a meeting, let me know.’

  ‘She doesn’t get much chance to leave Mrs Lidgey.’

  ‘You can always stay with that cripple to give her a break.’

  ‘I can’t order the Lidgey household.’

  ‘You can damn well try.’

  ‘I don’t have to do anything for you.’ Jo’s eyes shone with a threat.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Russell wailed. ‘It’s just that I’ve fallen for Sally. Do what you can for me, eh, Jo?’

  She opened the door, letting in the fog that was covering the moor. ‘I’ll have another word with her now. Go to the ruins tomorrow afternoon. If she’s not there, you’ll know she’s not interested.’

  I hope you enjoy your trudge through the mire for nothing, Russell Trevail, Jo said to herself while making her way to her next port of call.

  No one answered the Viguses’ front door. Jo looked through one of the small windows, which had shutters hanging off at the sides. The remnants of a pair of coarse curtains were drawn across the dirty glass. Rather than knock again and create curiosity, she lifted the wobbly latch and peeped inside.

  She recoiled at the stench that hit her like a wash of corruption, as if it had a life force seeking to cut off and destroy all that was pure and natural. She hastily
raised a hand to cover her nose. Outside, the fog had reduced visibility to a few yards; in the cottage the filth and gloom hid the corners, making everything dark and ominous. ‘Hello, is anyone at home?’

  The room appeared to be empty, then she saw a movement in the bottom drawer of the dresser. Alarm grew inside her. She thought it was a rat. She was afraid of rats. The conditions the Vigus children lived in were worse than she had feared. Summoning up her courage, Jo crept inside and approached the dresser. There was another movement. She flinched. But there was no scurry of brown fur, no twitching pink nose, no big sharp teeth. A pale, nearly naked thing undulated in the drawer. Then she was rushing to it, falling down on her knees. ‘Oh, my God.’

  Marylyn Vigus was lying on her back, on a scrap of cloth. A dirty, urine-drenched muslin nappy was tangled about her legs. She must have kicked off her inadequate covering, which was also soiled. Her movements were fretful, her tiny blue-white mouth puckering, her eyes huge, sunken, vacuous. How had she survived the bitterly cold night?

  Jo touched Marylyn’s cheek with her fingertip. The baby turned her head, mouth frantically searching for nourishment. Gingerly, Jo lifted the soiled nappy aside, then pulling the silk scarf off her neck she placed it over the tiny body. While frightened she would hurt the baby, she gradually lifted her into her arms. She felt weightless as she sought something to suck. Jo’s heart ached for her. Resting Marylyn half on the dresser surface for security, she unfastened her raincoat and brought Marylyn in against her body, hoping to warm her.

  ‘Dear God,’ she breathed, ‘what can I do for you?’

  Marylyn mewled like a kitten. Jo looked anxiously about the room. There was nothing she could feed the baby with. ‘Hello, Marylyn,’ she whispered, ‘I’m Jo. I’m going to do all I can to help you.’ Marylyn had a definite resemblance to Lew. When Jo saw him next she would demand he face up to his responsibility. She wished she had come here before. Marylyn, and Rex and Molly, desperately needed help.